Amity's Stories
Death of the CB2000
©2000-2008 All Rights Reserved
If you forget all the difficulties surrounding my last trip to visit Robert and his dungeon, then you can focus on the fun I had. Things to forget include a severe case of food poisoning, but that’s another story. The dungeon is the story; the death of the CB2000 is the protagonist, and I am the plot.
My slave wears my chastity device all the time (within the bounds of reality), given to me by JT at the Stockroom, and I like it that way. It has been one of the most excellent training devices I’ve ever met and his wearing it has had a series of profound impacts on his behavior, attitude, focus, and attention – all good. He’s a walking sex slave, oozes sexuality, smells sexy, and focuses on me and my pleasure all the time. If life stopped there, I’d be happy.
But I’m the kind of domme who always walks forward and my slave, bound by his balls via a short white rope to my ankle, follows, or crawls, a very few short steps behind. It’s not his concern where I’m going; rather, all he has to focus on is staying with me. Where I go, he’s learned, is where he wants to be.
So that’s how we wound up at Robert’s dungeon one autumn
morning, so that I could see his new bondage table and so he could set
up an Amity fantasy that simply required fulfilling. Writing to Robert
and explaining my fantasy and having him return the email with a paragraph
that starts with, “How about…” has to be one of my
favorite incoming mail alerts of all time. Robert has this knack not
only for engineering great solutions but also for making them kinky.
He makes me happy; he turns me into the state of being best called gleeful,
even with food poisoning on my agenda.
So with the sun probably shining outside, my slave was in the warm dark dungeon on his back, his legs immobilized upward, his arms bound securely to eyebolts in a metal table, his eyes blindfolded and a chain keeping his head down, and a variety of lengths of lovely white rope securing him in places I hadn’t even imagined needed securing. Robert does rope like artwork and I was both impressed and incredibly turned on.
That’s when we stood back to admire his handiwork.
That’s also when I backed up against him and put his hands on my breasts (what he calls, “pretty big puppies’) and reminded him that I liked it hard.
“I remember,” he whispered, and did one of the things he does best – he gets me in the mood. Trust me, he remembered.
A slave doesn’t need to see what his domme is doing with her friend a few feet away from where he is bound, chained, tied, and totally exposed. No, all he has to do is lay there, breathe, and understand that he is owned and whatever I do is just fine. He’s the receptacle; he accepts. It’s not his lot to wonder or predict what I might do next.
Sometimes, though, I give him clues.
I had a new toy, one that was too exciting so for days I kept taking it out of its wrapper and fiddling with it. Every time I touched it, I felt its pull more strongly. It was metal, so it was strong all by itself, but more than that, it was going somewhere that simply terrified my boy. It didn’t matter that Robert reassured him. It didn’t matter that I did, too. The only thing that mattered were his two strong legs, tied mercilessly to the vertical posts on the bondage table, trembling uncontrollably as he begged me to leave his makeshift blindfold on.
I could feel Robert smile but I was too engrossed in what I was finally doing to look too hard at his obviously pleased face. After all, who wouldn’t be pleased with what I was doing?
After taking my slave’s masturbation from him via a CB2000 and then removing his orgasm from his lifestyle, via my spoken word, what I wanted next was ownership of his mind. I had his body; I owned his soul; his promises were mine; his heart was given; what was left? I wanted more -- I had to have still more of him. I needed him to understand that what was real for him was what I wanted to be real. If I created it, it would become real enough for him.
I wanted his reality.
That’s one reason we were at Robert’s dungeon and he was all trussed up like a big dog, waiting and trembling for me to touch him. I swear, I thought he was going to scream when I tied his cock with that thin black leather cord to the overhead horizontal beam and then got started. I bet he thought I was done.
That’s when I took out the vibrating sound.
Of course, I’m sure that many folks don’t play with sounds at all, and still others can deal only with the ultra-thin ones, and many others don’t see the fun in it at all, and still more just consider that orifice off limits, but ALL of that is why I stood there, between his upraised legs, with a quarter-inch solid metal, beautifully crafted vibrating sound in my hands and an evil glint in my eye.
What was he going to say? No? I don’t think so.
Even with Robert’s reassurances that “the penis is expandable
and snaps right back into place,” my slave was in MY reality and
I’m not sure heard many of Robert’s words. What he heard
was the sound of the first whirr and judging from how well we communicate,
he also heard my joy. He was pleading.
And I hadn’t even touched him yet.
All of the sudden, his safe and regulated world had swirled into the nightmare that was in my hands. He wasn’t going anywhere and I knew he didn’t want to be anywhere but where he was; however, I also knew that his mind struggled with the reality I created. That’s our complex dynamic.
“What the fuck am I doing here?” was surely on his mind.
That’s the game, that’s the play. That’s the reality I create for him. He would rather have cut off his arm than moved an inch, and to his credit and Robert’s neat rope work, he was going nowhere. The dark dungeon, my tingly nipples (thanks to Robert’s remembering), and a trussed, bound, and exposed slave made my work easy. Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy my work?
When I grasped the shaft of his penis, I thought he was going to shriek. Instead, he moaned noisily and started breathing through his mouth to keep himself calm. I saw no reason to allow that, so I rubbed the vibrating sound up and down the length of his penis until his breathing was wonderfully irregular again and he was dripping in my hand.
Now, go explain that! Scared to death, terrified of what might happen, ripped out of his reality and planted securely in mine, he was dripping like the big dog he is, right into my hand. I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh as he lay there, probably tearful under his blindfold, definitely near hyperventilating, and the whole thing amused me.
I know I heard Robert snicker.
After lubricating the just-cleaned beautiful metal with antibiotic ointment,
I went to work and pressed the rounded tip into his now-
open one and
watched the gleaming metal invade what he thought would never see a visitor
- - but that was his old reality - - and now he was in mine. Mine is
better. Mine makes me happy.
It took a long while to make him breathe more easily and calm down some, although he was never truly composed. His legs stopped twitching wildly and he rediscovered his voice, which, if I recall, was begging and pleading for this particular moment to end, but I saw no need to stop until I felt like it. The long sound went in and out, deeper each time, as I kept a clear eye on his face making sure that the grimaces showed good pain (or total shock) and nothing untoward was happening.
I went deeper each time.
He pleaded louder with each stroke. I’m not sure he knew what he was pleading for.
Deeper.
Louder.
Oh gawd, it was the best morning I’d spent in a very long time! My slave in my reality, my sound (OK, it came from the Stockroom, but it’s mine now), fully immersed in his rigid and dripping cock, his mind almost blown from the ferocity with which I took him, and my best friend and mentor, obviously pleased.
Life was good that morning.
Until.
Ownership is serious and reality is ever-changing. Scared as he was, tense and grimacing, using every ounce of his strength to withstand his terror under my hands, I saw no reason to allow my slave to get off easy. After all, his new reality is what I create and I was definitely in a creative mood. I wanted more.
I took off his blindfold (really, a washcloth with chain lying atop it) and lifted his head so he could see the full length of the sound embedded well within his precious penis. He managed to focus his eyes.
I’ve never heard a sound quite that delicious. It sounded something like, "PLEASE MISTRESS DON'T MAKE ME LOOK!" but I could have gotten it wrong.
And I know, from across the dungeon, Robert smiled.
Which brings up back to the death of the CB2000.
When I finally untied him and let him stretch his legs and other parts, he
wound up at my feet, the proper place for my slave, and I played with his
abused cock with my toes. As he apparently got over his terror and seemed
somewhat energized by my white socks (which Robert insists can be “solved” with
black ones), he thrust once too hard against my feet and whoosh! The CB2000’s
top was rammed off and his ready-to-explode penis did just that.
He knew better than to ejaculate; that’s simply not allowed. But the look on his face was priceless when he picked up his head and sheepishly sought my eyes as if to ask, “What do I do now?”
The answer was simple. I have ten toes and they all needed attention. That’s another of his primary jobs and he does it very well. When I was satisfied, I gave him a little treat to nibble. Of course, no one gets to play unless Robert is involved, so she was a delightful little treat for both of them.
When Robert asks, “What do you think I have, a little black book of subs that I can call just because you want one?”
I think we all know the answer.
It was a good day. Outside, the sun was probably shining and the highways were overcrowded with single-passenger vehicles, but I was in my reality and my slave was a mere step behind, his leash tightly tied to my ankle, and I kept walking forward. Even without the CB2000, he was fully immersed in my reality, and that’s exactly where he’s going to stay.
JT will replace the CB2000, of course, unless I can talk him into a Violet Wand that I’ve craved for the longest time, but that particular chastity toy? That CB2000? It’s a slavemaker.